


give me things to stay awake

by embodied



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Exes to Lovers, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Post-Break Up, did i mention a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-11 04:04:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11706444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embodied/pseuds/embodied
Summary: It’s shitty and it’s counterproductive and it’s self-indulgent, but he lets it become a thing. On Saturday nights Harry goes out and gets so pissed he can’t stand, and when the bartender cuts him off he rings Louis and is in his car within an hour. It’s not a cycle he’s proud of, but it’s also something he can’t resist, and he keeps doing it as long as Louis keeps showing up.AU. It's been a year since Louis broke up with Harry.





	give me things to stay awake

**Author's Note:**

> right, so here is some trash angst to kick off your day bc i was listening to the song december by neck deep and had a lot of Thoughts and Feelings. big thanks to [eden](https://victoryjacket.tumblr.com) for being an amazing cheerleader as always and for answering my dumb questions about the british/american language barrier lmao, and to jules for nitpicking as well. also, i don't know if ill get hate for this or not, but just in case, a quick disclaimer: this is 100% fiction to fuel my own selfish angsty desires, and the contents of this fic do not reflect my real life view of hl's relationship now or at any other point in time. 
> 
> title is from dance inside by the all american rejects

_i hope you get your ballroom floor_  
_and perfect house with rose red doors_  
_i’m the last thing you remember_  
_it’s been a long lonely december_

 

There’s lights. There’s lights and there’s dancing, and there’s a couple snogging at the bar nearby, and there’s loud thumping music that keeps getting louder and thumpier, and there’s a boy waiting near the cracked mirror in the bathroom that Harry promised he’d get back to just after he got some fresh air, and there’s Harry at the bar with another shot of bourbon sitting in front of him instead. Whether it’s number six or seven he’s not certain, and he wants nothing more than his own bed, only he hasn’t any way to get there.

He’s not sure where his mind was when he made the decision to go out tonight, somewhere between blue eyes and a warm body, but now he’s here and he feels a million miles away. It could be because he’s stupidly drunk, can already feel tomorrow’s hangover, or it could be because he came here with a purpose and he can’t be fucked to remember what it was.

“Think you’re done for the night, mate,” the bartender is telling him, something like pity in his eyes, and Harry hates that. He’s not an angry drunk, though, more of a conceding one at that, so he only pushes away his empty shot glass and fumbles for his wallet to pay his tab. It’s only after he’s shoved his way through mingling bodies towards the exit that he remembers his phone died around shot number four, and he curses and has to lean against a doorway just to retain his balance.

There’s a dingy old phone box near the entrance, he remembers seeing it on his way in, and he’s not even sure if it works, but his stomach turns just thinking about weaving his way back through the sweaty crowd, so he supposes he’ll have to give it a try.

It’s freezing outside, the cold nipping at his heels and almost-but-not-quite frigid enough to clear his head. His hands shake as he drops a few coins into the slot, not even paying attention to how much, just going until it lets him dial. That’s where he pauses, though - he can’t remember the last time he had to manually dial a number. He’s so pissed he hardly even remembers grabbing his coat and leaving the building, and here he is, leaning against the glass for support as he racks his bourbon-addled brain for someone to ring.

There’s a taxi service, probably. The street is fairly busy for two in the morning on a Thursday night; he could ask anyone passing by to look it up for him, but that’s bringing too much attention to himself. _Idiot,_ he thinks, and for a second he curses the birth of the mobile phone for making this so goddamn hard, then he curses himself for not being able to scrape himself together enough to remember _one_ bloody phone number.

Well, there is one. He can’t for the life of him recall his mum’s number, or Gemma’s, or Niall’s, or Ed’s, or Liam’s, but he’d be lying to himself if he said there isn’t one. He only begins to punch it in when he feels sure he’s beginning to freeze to death, fingers stiff from the cold and back beginning to ache from how violently he’s shivering. He holds the phone to his ear, barely breathing.

Louis picks up on the third ring.

Half an hour later, he’s sitting on the curb with his hands deep in his pockets, head tucked between his knees to retain warmth when he hears the telltale sputter of Louis’ old Honda sidling up to the side of the street, the same one he stormed out of a year ago when Louis told him he thought they should see other people. He’s not quite as drunk now, but he’s not quite sober, either, everything still a bit fuzzy around the edges. He mostly just feels like shit, moreso when he moves to stand and his knees crack under his weight, still stumbling like an idiot as he rounds to the passenger side.

It hits him, then, as he’s sliding into the seat and doing his best not to look to his right, how fucking awkward this is. He hasn’t spoken to Louis in a good five months, not really, and he hasn’t seen him in longer than that, and here they are at three in the morning outside some shitty nightclub in the east end, Harry too fucked up to form a sentence and Louis looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. It’s quiet for the first few moments as Louis pulls away from the curb, save for the rumbling of the car underneath Harry’s feet, until Harry manages to unstick his heavy tongue from the roof of his mouth long enough to speak.

“M’sorry,” is what comes out. There isn’t much room for pleasant conversation, admittedly, though he’s not quite sure what he’s apologising for. For dragging Louis out of bed, for looking a mess and feeling like it too, for suddenly ignoring all of Louis’ text messages five months ago even though they promised they’d stay friends, for everything.

“S’fine,” Louis responds, soft and small and just like that. It’s probably a means to end the conversation, but all it does is make Harry wants to apologise again, and one more time after that. He realizes he sounds like a drunk twat each time that he says it, but he’s got so much to apologise for. He only says the one word, over and over, but he means something different each time; _sorry I’m pathetic, sorry I’m still in love with you, sorry for saying sorry so much_ , until finally Louis pulls into Harry’s flat building, which used to be his, too, shifting into park and looking like it takes too much not to shut off the engine and climb out, like muscle memory.

Harry doesn’t move to get out right away, feeling like there’s something he forgot to say amongst all the drunken (but not insincere) apologies that he couldn’t keep from tumbling out of his mouth. He wonders if he should ask him how he’s been, but in the end, a polite “thank you” wins out. As he’s reaching for the handle, though, Louis stops him with a hand on his arm, just barely brushing enough to get Harry’s attention before he pulls it away.

“Listen,” he says, and it’s the first real look Harry’s gotten at his face since he climbed into the car. He looks - well, he looks exactly the same, honestly, sleep-rumpled and small, and that’s what makes Harry want to run the most, but he doesn’t, too desperate to hear whatever it is that Louis’ about to say.

“Like, this isn’t great, right now, but I’d rather you call me than wind up dead in some alley, so.”

He waves his hand a little awkwardly, and Harry thinks he’s done, but he opens his mouth again like maybe he isn’t. Harry waits.

“And, I mean, I do care about you,” he continues slowly. “It’s just what any friend would do, really.” The longer he talks the more it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of why he’s here rather than Harry, but Harry nods anyway, and when he moves to get out this time, Louis lets him. He gets as far as getting one leg out the door before Louis says, “Harry,” drawing his eyes back to him. “We’re friends, right?”

Harry stares at him for a beat, hand curling tighter around the handle as he swallows and struggles to keep eye contact.

“Right. Course,” he finally manages, and Louis seems to take that, nodding to himself and not stopping Harry again as he gets out and shuts the door behind him. Harry runs a hand over his face as soon as he starts to pull away, still able to hear the sputter of his car halfway down the block, and waiting for it to fizzle out completely before he goes inside.

*

The next morning, it takes Harry half an hour to compose a text to Louis, and then another half hour to find the courage to send it. It’s nothing special, just a simple _Thank you for saving my drunk arse last night. I’d say I’m sorry, but you know that already. H,_ except he still feels like he’s overstepping somehow. He presses send anyway and sets his phone face down on the end table, not daring to look at it until after he’s showered.

He takes his time drying off and getting dressed, and when he finally unlocks his phone again, he’s got two texts from Louis from forty-two minutes ago.

 _Anytime_ , the first one says, and then, _You don’t have to sign your texts, idiot, I still have you saved :P_

Harry groans and leaves it unanswered, but if he goes out and gets pissed the next Saturday just because he knows he has Louis to call later on, then no one has to know.

*

Harry is resilient, but he’s also selfish. Getting over Louis was the hardest thing he’s ever done - well, “getting over” is the wrong phrase to use, because he’s not over him and he probably never will be - but getting _used_ to living a life separate from his when they always used to share was something he got good at.

Every couple promises to stay friends, but he and Louis actually did it. For seven months after they broke up, they still texted constantly, and met up occasionally with the buffer of their mutual friends. Splitting up their things was hard, and sleeping alone was harder, but eventually under the guise of friendship, Harry started to feel okay. Then, in early May, Louis introduced him to his new boyfriend, and Harry realised they weren’t keeping things separate enough. He’d learned how to be Louis’ friend, but he hadn’t quite learned how to balance that with still being in love with him, and that’s where things started to get rough around the edges. Over the course of the next month, their texts got less and less frequent, and then on Harry’s end, they stopped completely. It was supposed to help, but really all of Harry’s feelings for him just manifested into some bigger, uglier version of themselves, and now seeing him just one time feels like too much.

It’s shitty and it’s counterproductive and it’s self-indulgent, but he lets it become a thing. On Saturday nights Harry goes out and gets so pissed he can’t stand, and when the bartender cuts him off he rings Louis and is in his car within an hour. It’s not a cycle he’s proud of, but it’s also something he can’t resist, and he keeps doing it as long as Louis keeps showing up.

On one night he’s particularly sloshed, the bartender having to actually walk him to the door, asking again and again if he’s _sure_ he doesn’t want a cab. Harry insists he’ll be fine, and the bartender leaves him alone with the same look of remorse over his shoulder that Harry feels he’s been getting an awful lot lately.

It takes him three tries to get Louis on the phone, even without having to dial the number himself, and Louis doesn’t sound surprised this time when he answers with a tired hello.

“Louis. I’m at Duke’s,” Harry slurs, and Louis says, “I’m coming,” without any more prompting. When Harry hears his old Honda, he gets in without even looking up, dropping heavily into the passenger seat and knocking his head against the still-frosty window as soon as he’s got the door shut.

“Fuck, I had - I had too much,” he mumbles, blinking blearily across the console.

“Seems like you’re always having too much,” Louis responds, and even through double-vision Harry sees the hint of a sad smile on his face.

It’s quiet for the rest of the ride, but Louis hums along to the radio once he finds a station he likes, and Harry assumes, or at least he hopes, that he isn’t upset.

By the time they get back Harry thinks he might be okay. Louis stays idling at the curb as he gets out, and he makes it two steps towards his flat before he keels over and vomits right there on the pavement. He’s vaguely aware that the sputtering stops, and then Louis is at his side with his keys dangling from his pocket as he helps Harry straighten up.

“C’mon, up you go, that’s it. You alright?” he’s saying, and Harry nods without opening his eyes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Louis looks stricken, for a second, like he isn’t quite sure if he should leave Harry alone now that he’s upright. Pity seems to win out, though, so he keeps one arm around Harry’s waist as he leads him up to the door, practically supporting his entire body weight. He punches in the code easy as anything, helping Harry into the lift and getting him to use the wall for support rather than him as he presses the number to his floor. Even through the haze of everything, Harry can feel his fingers gently stroking up and down his spine, burning holes through his coat.

The ding indicating that they’ve reached his floor startles him, and he spends the whole walk down the corridor feeling like he might be sick again. It doesn’t help that everything is spinning, even when he closes his eyes, but by some miracle he makes it, feels Louis digging in his coat pocket for the key.

“Jeans,” Harry manages, his own voice an ugly sound, and then squirms when he feels Louis’ hand moves to fish around his back pocket until he finally gets the keyring hooked around his finger.

The two of them spill into Harry’s flat, following the soft golden light of the kitchen that Harry forgot to shut off before he left. Louis gets Harry sat at the breakfast bar, helping Harry shrug off his coat, and the way he moves effortlessly around the kitchen like he never left is almost too much for Harry to watch. So he doesn’t, closes his eyes and rest his forehead on his hands, listening to Louis rifle through the medicine cupboard and then through the fridge. When Harry looks up Louis is in front of him with two paracetamol and a large glass of water, his eyes tired and soft.

“Drink,” he says, and Harry does, wincing as he swallows down the tablets. He tries to get away with only drinking half the glass, but when he pushes it away Louis pushes it right back. Harry huffs like a petulant child, but he knows Louis’ right, so he swallows down the rest without even tasting it, and Louis places the empty glass in the sink with a satisfied hum.

Harry finds that he can walk on his own after that, with the exception of a few clumsy stumbles, but it’s not much different than when he’s sober, he supposes. Small victories. He almost forgets that Louis is still here, walking next to him down the dark hallway with one arm braced out like he’s ready to catch him if he falls.

Neither of them bother turning the bedroom light on when they get there, Harry falling into bed knee-first.

“Woah, hold on, let’s at least get your boots off, love.” Harry’s eyes snap up to Louis’ face when he says it, but Louis doesn’t even look like he noticed, kneeling to slip Harry’s shoes off his feet. Harry doesn’t understand why he’s being so _gentle_ , so unbothered by Harry’s juvenile behavior and so focused on doing whatever he can to make sure he’s comfortable, and he doesn’t even deserve it. Louis should have told him to fuck off after the first time, to grow up and learn to handle himself better, but instead he’d said _anytime_ and given Harry the benefit of the doubt, over and over again, and now he’s here tucking Harry into the bed that they used to share. He doesn’t fucking _deserve_ it.

When Louis finally has him situated, he stands up straight, tucking his hands into his pockets and, for the first time all night, looks like he’s unsure what to do next. Harry blinks up at him from his spot on the bed, and wishes he could ask him to stay.

“Good?” Louis asks finally, breaking the still silence.

“Fine,” Harry responds, even though he’s really, really not. Louis nods and moves towards the door, but he stops when he reaches it and peeks over his shoulder, the light of the hallway enveloping him like a blue-golden halo.

“Harry? Are you alright, really?” he asks again. Harry can’t see his expression; he’s just a silhouette, but he imagines he’s wearing that fucking mask of pity that Harry can’t seem to escape.

“M’fine, I told you, just got to sleep it off,” he murmurs, turning his face into the pillow and wishing he felt like anything more than a charity case.

“No, I mean - I’m just worried - " he stops and clears his throat, like he meant to say something different. “It’s just not like you to go out and get smashed alone all the time like this.”

Harry lets the words hang in the air, the weight of them pushing down on his shoulders like an anvil, relentless. His throat sticks as he tries to think of a response, eyes flicking up to the ceiling. Even as a silhouette, he can’t look at him. He can’t.

Sometimes, being with Louis was like navigating a dark room, feeling around where he knows the furniture is and occasionally knocking his hip into a sharp corner; it wasn’t easy and it wasn’t perfect, but he always got there eventually.

He misses him. God, he misses him.

“I think,” he starts, inhaling sharply through his nose, “it isn’t really up to you, to decide what is and isn’t like me anymore.”

It’s mean and it’s not fair to Louis, but then again, none of this really is. Harry still wants to sink as soon as the words are out of his mouth, and for once he’s glad he can’t see Louis’ face.

There's a brief silence, but Harry can _hear_ Louis shifting his weight from one foot to another like he always did when he wasn't sure what to say.

“Okay,” he says finally, on an exhale. “That’s fair, I suppose. But you know you can talk to me, yeah? If something's going on?” Harry shuts his eyes, and wonders again why any of this is happening.

“Yeah,” he answers, even though he’s not sure it’s true.

“I just care about you, Harry. I really do.”

 _If you cared you would stay; if you cared you’d never have gone._ “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

“So, um. Text me in the morning, if you’re up to it,” Louis says, and Harry says nothing, waiting until the door clicks shut behind him to turn his head and shove it into his pillow.

_*_

He texts him in the morning, even though he promised himself he wouldn’t.

_*_

Somewhere during the transition from late November to early December, they get on casual-texting basis. It happens so gradually that Harry barely even realises it, and soon enough he’s graduated from apologetic texts at eight in the morning to sending Louis something funny he’d seen on Twitter without a second thought just like he would have six months ago. If anything, the weirdest thing about it is how natural it feels, how easily they fall back into a friendly routine as if they’d never stopped. No, the weirdest thing is definitely how after just twelve hours of radio silence, Harry itches to text him again, unable to keep from checking his phone every five minutes even though he knows damn well there isn’t anything there.

On Friday he gets off work early, and chooses to spend his afternoon in front of the telly, watching some shitty American program in just his boxers with a bowl of corn flakes balanced on one knee, and his phone on the other. He’s had his and Louis’ messages open on the screen for ten minutes now, staring at the string of emojis he’d sent yesterday afternoon that apparently weren’t conversational enough to warrant a response. His thumb hovers over the keyboard, the cursor blinking up at him almost tauntingly. He types, _Hey,_ three times, and deletes it three times, lips turned down into a frown before he types it out a fourth time and finally sends it. He turns his gaze back to the telly, but leaves the screen open in his lap, a poor attempt at pretending he isn’t waiting for it to blink with a response.

He’s spooning more cereal in his mouth when a movement catches his eye, gaze darting down to see three grey dots in the corner of his screen.

 _Hey,_ Louis responds, a bit of milk dribbling down Harry’s chin as he drops his spoon back into his bowl.

 _What’s up?_ Harry sends, then winces at the adolescence of the conversation. There’s no going back now, though, so he leans back into the sofa and waits. Louis replies less than a minute later, and Harry abandons his cereal altogether, setting it on the coffee table so he can pick his phone up with both hands.

_Just chilling with Lots . Shes come down from uni for xmas_

Thankfully he doesn’t ask the question back, because Harry doesn’t know how to explain watching old episodes of The Bachelor on a Friday afternoon with the curtains drawn and a few stray cornflakes getting soggy in his lap.

 _Not bothering you, am I?_ He asks, chewing his lip as he watches Louis type. His shoulders sag a little in relief when Louis sends back, _of course not,_ followed by, _Doing anything fun tonight ?_ before Harry can formulate a response.

_Might go out for drinks with Ed. Not sure_

_Uh oh :P_

Harry bites back a grin, something warm in his chest, and for a second he thinks it’s a bit like they’re those eighteen year-old kids in uni again, testing the waters after drunkenly exchanging numbers at someone’s party without any idea how easily they’d fall into each other. The thought is too much, and he shakes it almost immediately, because that isn’t what this is. This is exes awkwardly trying to reconcile what’s left of their friendship, and that thought isn’t as warm, but at least it grounds Harry from deluding himself that it’s anything more than that.

_Very funny, but Ed’s driving. You’re free x_

Their conversation dissolves into something less awkward after that, sharing details about their days and funny stories from work, until Ed shows up to pick up Harry at half seven and he’s still on the sofa in his boxers with his phone cradled in his hands, giggling silently over Louis’ last text. Ed gives him a look, and Harry gives him a half-arsed apology as he rushes into his bedroom to make himself decent and fix his hair into something presentable.

For once he doesn’t think about Louis much when he’s out, keeping himself buzzed but never shifting towards drunk, and politely declining when a boy offers to take him back to his. He gets home around one, tucking himself into bed and plugging his phone in to charge. He’s just beginning to nod off when it dings with a text, blinking open his heavy eyes and straining to look at the too-bright screen.

 _Get home safe ?_ a message from Louis reads, and Harry sends him a thumbs-up and a sleeping emoji and expects that to be it. He keeps his screen open when he sees Louis begin to type, though, and he isn’t expecting much more than a simple goodnight, so it’s a bit of a surprise when Louis’ response comes in.

_I think it’s wired into me to stay up on the weekends waiting for your drunk arse to ring me up . Can’t sleep until at least 3 . Is that weird ?_

Admittedly, Harry’s tipsy and he’s tired, so there’s not much going through his head when he types his reply.

_You just miss me that much, huh?_

It’s supposed to be a poor attempt at a joke, but it doesn’t really translate that way, and even if it did it wouldn’t be a very funny one. For the first time all day Louis takes longer than two minutes to respond, and if Harry were more awake he’d be making himself sick thinking about what Louis might say to a stupid fucking question like that. As it is, he finds himself passing out with his phone still in his hand, and doesn’t see Louis’ reply until he blinks awake at half five, a puddle of drool forming on his pillow and his arm dead underneath his ear.

 _Yes,_ is all it says, and Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything at all.

*

The week after Gemma’s birthday, she drags Harry out with her friends and her boyfriend for “cocktail night”. Harry hadn’t wanted to go, not really, because they had a birthday dinner with mum and Robin the previous week and because he doesn’t know her friends all that well, but she’d seen right through his excuse and begged him to come. Well, _begged_ is a strong word - more like threatened to cut his balls off if he didn’t come out and make nice with her mates, and then in a more serious tone, told him she’d really appreciate it if he were there, and that’s what got him in the end. So now he’s sat in a plush barstool at some high-class place in Shoreditch, all dressed up for the first time in weeks and intently swirling the olive around in his martini while Lauren-from-uni tells him all about her recent breakup, nodding along and politely angling his body away whenever she leans too close.

Gemma had stuck with him for about a half an hour, catching him up on the office gossip from last week and sharing a few good laughs before disappearing to the rooftop bar with Michal. Lauren-from-uni is on a tangent about her ex now, and he’s a great listener, normally, but there’s only so much of that he can take, so he only makes it halfway through his second drink before excusing himself to the loo.

There, he washes his hands and checks his phone, unsurprised to see nothing but an email from Tesco in his inbox. He hasn’t spoken to Louis since that night two weeks ago, and it’s taken an unexpected toll on him. Just knowing Louis misses him back is too much, and he feels guilty for leaving him without a reply. He thinks it’s obvious what his motive was for ringing him up all those times, but he still didn’t know how to say it back. He couldn’t.

He leans against the wall and runs his fingers through his hair, wishing he knew where they start and end. It doesn’t feel over, is the thing, even after all this time. The first few days after they broke it off, he didn’t leave his bed, on edge and waiting for Louis to walk through the door and tell him it was a mistake. That hope got smaller with every day that passed, but it never truly went away, and even now he feels like he’s still waiting. Louis’ always been stubborn, though, and maybe his first mistake was expecting him to be the one to make the move.

He opens up their messages again, unable to help himself, that _Yes_ from two weeks ago still the last thing in the thread. He blinks at it, types _Hiiii, hope you’re well x,_ then deletes it and calls him instead.

“Mate, we’ve got to quit meeting like this,” Louis greets on the fourth ring, just before Harry’s about to hang up. For a second he considers it even after Louis’ answered, pretend it was a misdial, but he fears Louis would see right through it, so he clears his throat and speaks.

“I’m not drunk,” he says slowly, voice sticking in his throat. “Just wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh,” Louis says after a long second. “What’s up?”

So Harry tells him about cocktail night, and about Lauren-from-uni and her ex, and he asks Louis about his plans for Christmas hols, but he’s stalling. Surely he called for a reason; he’s just not sure what it is yet. Maybe he should admit he misses him, that he’s not sure whether he drinks because he misses him or because he wants to miss him more. Maybe he should beg him to come home, or at least meet him for coffee sometime, or maybe he should just fucking hang up, get on a train somewhere far from anywhere Louis Tomlinson has ever been, and try to forget he ever met him.

He knocks his head back against the wall, cold tile hitting his skull a bit painfully and leaving a dull throb in the back of his head until he opens his mouth to speak again. He might even be interrupting, but he’s been tuning everything into white noise for the last thirty seconds and he isn’t sure. Either way Louis’ listening when he swallows the lump in his throat and says, “D’you know Gemma and Michal are gonna get married?”

“Oh?” Louis asks, trailing off like he’s waiting for Harry to go on, so he does.

“Like, they’re not engaged properly, or anything. But she told me last week that she really thinks she wants to spend the rest of her life with him, and that she’s been eyeing the ring displays whenever they go out shopping and she thinks he might propose, like, soon.”

“That’s, I mean. It’s great, but, um...you don’t sound too happy for her?” Louis’ talking slowly, like he’s treading on a wire, and Harry doesn’t blame him.

“No, I am,” Harry assures, shrugging even though Louis can’t see him. The flush of one of the toilets startles him, followed by a man walking out to wash his hands who gives Harry a strange look in the reflection of the mirror. Harry doesn’t make eye contact as he waits for him to leave, pressing the phone harder to his ear and trying hard not to sound like he’s about to cry when he speaks again.

“I am,” he repeats, and fuck, here come the tears. “S’just, like, Mum used to tease her. She’d always joke about when Gem’s gonna give her grandkids, and stuff, she’d say stuff like, ‘your baby brother’s gonna beat you to it, you know.’” Harry scrubs at his eyes until they’re dry and burning, but his sniff still gives him away. “And I’m not, like, _jealous,_ but - "

“Harry,” Louis cuts him off, and he sounds firm but not like he means it. “Stop.”

Harry’s already started, though, and he’s not sure he could shut up now if he tried. “Don’t you ever think about it, though? How good we used to be?”

“Listen, Haz, I should get going. Get home safe, yeah?”

“Louis, don’t. Please don’t hang up on me. You said if something’s going on, I could talk to you,” he pauses, just to make sure Louis’ still on the line, and breathes out when the dial tone doesn’t come. His voice breaks when he says, “Well, this is something.”

On the other line, Louis says nothing, but either Harry’s onto something or he’s already gone and cocked it all up, so there’s no reason not to keep it going.

“I mean, if you're happy, then that's - that's all I want for you, but, like...are you? I guess I just need to know, like. Have you really moved on or are you just pretending to?”

It’s quiet. For a moment he wonders if Louis has actually hung up on him, but when he checks the screen, the timer in the center is still adding seconds to their conversation.

Then, “If I were pretending, I don’t think I’ve done a very good bloody job, have I?” Louis snaps suddenly, and it startles Harry but at least it’s something. “Of course I fucking think about it. I think about you every goddamn day, from the the minute I wake up to the minute I nod off at three in the morning because I’ve been making myself sick thinking about you, where you are, why you haven’t called me yet. Is that what you want to hear?”

 _Yes,_ Harry thinks but doesn’t say. It’s exactly what he wants to hear. It doesn’t feel _good_ , maybe, but it’s somewhat of a relief to know Louis’ been hurting too.

“Fuck,” he breathes, combing his fingers through his hair so hard it hurts, nails dragging against his skull. “It’s not worth all this, is it?”

He hears Louis swallow, hears him thinking. “What’s not?”

“We broke up because we thought we’d be better off, you know, because we were kids when we started, and we thought we were missing out on bigger and better things because we were so wrapped up in each other, but you know what? It’s not fucking worth it.” He pauses to take a breath, and then, “Did you know I went to Rome over the summer? Just after we stopped talking, I went with some mates, and I was so bloody excited to see the Sistine Chapel, but then we got there, and I was looking at it, right, and Louis, it was - God, it was fucking breathtaking, honestly, but still all I could think about was how much better it would have been if you were there. And I -” his voice breaks again and he pauses for another second, clearing his throat. “I just miss you, all the time, and I’ve tried and I’ve tried to get over it, but just - nothing is ever good enough. When we broke up, you kept saying, like, what if there’s someone else, or whatever, and I thought I might’ve understood that, but Louis? I don’t think that anymore. I think we got it right the first time.” Another pause to let his shoulders relax, hand shaking where it’s gripping the phone to his ear. “And I guess I just keep thinking about how I used to feel like we were a forever thing, and if after a year we’re both still so fucking miserable, then I’m running out of reasons to justify why we aren’t together anymore.”

It’s quiet for a long time, but not quiet enough that Harry can’t hear Louis’ quivering breaths, and he hopes to God he isn’t crying.

“Shit,” Louis says, and after another moment, “Do you want to come over?”

“What?” Harry asks, a little dumbstruck after his speech, and at first he thinks he’s heard him wrong.

“I just, like. I can’t really have this conversation with you over the phone,” Louis mumbles, soft and hesitant.

Harry breathes out, voice shaking as he says, “Yeah. Yeah, give me ten minutes, I’ll be there.”

“Okay. I’ll see you,” Louis tells him, and after a moment of mutual hesitance they hang up. Harry shuffles toward the mirror, fingers trembling as he shoves his disheveled hair back into place as best as he can. Getting rid of the red rim around his eyes is hopeless, so he does his best to keep his gaze cast down as he exits the toilet and makes his way back round to the bar. Lauren-from-uni has disappeared, so he almost makes it out without having to speak to anyone, but then a familiar manicured hand wraps around his elbow and catches him just before he can step outside.

“And where do you think you’re going, sir?” Gemma asks, hint of a smirk on her lips, but it vanishes as soon as she sees his face. “Woah, are you alright, love?”

“Don’t feel well,” he blurts too fast for it to be believable, shrugging his shoulders in a short, almost robotic movement. “M’just gonna go home.”

“Okay,” Gemma says slowly, furrowing her brows. “You sure you don’t want me to go with you, though? You don’t look good, I’m sure everyone would understand - "

“No, Gems, it’s - " Harry swallows, and figures there’s no sense in lying. He hasn’t exactly kept her updated on the situation with Louis, but she was his shoulder to cry on, back when he was still doing that. He licks his lips and leans in a little closer, speaking in a hushed tone even though no one is really paying attention to them. “Louis asked me to come over.”

He watches her eyes go wide, and for a brief second he wonders if she thinks he’s pathetic, but she just pulls him in for a hug so tight he can hardly breathe, though he’s not really breathing anyway.

She pulls away after a long second, eyes wide and serious. “Good luck, yeah? And be careful,” she tells him, keeping a light grip on his shoulders. Harry nods and Gemma lets him go, calling after him, “and you better bloody tell me how it goes!”

As soon as he slides into his car he lets out what feels like the first breath in ages, drumming his fingers anxiously against the steering wheel as he waits for Louis to text him the address.

Twenty minutes later he’s arriving to the street Louis told him, eyes darting from one side of the street to the other as he looks for it using the dim glow from the lampposts lining the street. It’s a nicer neighborhood than his, not that his is terrible, but it’s actual houses instead of flats with enough space in between that one kitchen fire wouldn’t set the whole street alight. He parks his car outside the one that he thinks belongs to Louis, the brass numbers on the door too dark to fully see.

He doesn’t know what to expect. Part of him keeps screaming not to get his hopes up, that maybe this is just going to be them talking it out and getting the closure that they need, but the other part can’t forget how broken Louis sounded on the phone, and wonders if this could be them finally swallowing their pride and fixing what they fucked up. Harry can’t stall any longer. He shuts off his engine and steps out of his car, hands in his pockets as he makes he way up to the step. He rings the bell first, waits a few seconds and tries to resist peering through the peephole before lifting his fist and rapping gently with his knuckle. His fist has barely left the wood when the door opens slowly, and there’s Louis, in a pair of threadbare joggers and a maroon jumper that looks stretched out from the wash, hanging low and uneven on his collarbones.

“Hi,” Harry says, surprised that it comes out as more than a squeak in the back of his throat.

“Hi,” Louis echoes, eyes flicking down to Harry’s leather boots and back up again. “You’re dressed all fancy.”

Harry shrugs, offering Louis a small smile. Louis seems to snap out of it then, blinking a few times and opening the door wider.

“Jesus, you’re probably freezing, sorry. Come in and give me your coat, I’ll hang it somewhere,” he curses, and the implication that Harry is meant to stay for more than a few minutes has him reeling. Louis lets him in and shuts the door behind him, taking his coat into a closet before leading him down the dimly lit entryway until it opens up into a wider space, a living room illuminated by a single floor lamp along with the light of the telly. There’s two or three blankets strewn about the sofa, and it makes a bittersweet smile spread on his face when he’s reminded how Louis would tuck his feet in between his legs whenever they were lazing about, because they got cold easy and he still refused to wear socks. There’s an empty dog bed in the corner, a coat slung carelessly over the armchair, and picture frames on each of the end tables. It’s cozy and a bit messy and everything Harry ever pictured for Louis, and it already feels like more of a home than his ever did once Louis was gone.

“D’you want tea?” comes Louis’ voice behind him, breaking the brief silence. Harry’s eyes drift from the room to him, and he murmurs, “sure, thanks,” before Louis nods and disappears down a corridor.

Harry tries to make himself comfortable on the sofa, but he’s sitting too straight and his shoes are still on, not to mention how out of place he feels in his navy shirt done all the way up to his collar and the tightest black jeans he owns. Louis returns before he can work himself into a fuss over it, holding two chipped mugs and offering Harry one as he curls up on the opposite side, tucking his legs underneath him.

“Did you find it okay?” Louis asks conversationally, obviously going for casual but Harry sees his nerves in the way that he fidgets, tugging the string on his teabag. “The house, I mean.”

Harry clears his throat and tries to relax, answering, “Yeah. You have a red door.”

Louis’ brows furrow and he stops playing with his tea. “Sorry?”

“When we talked about buying a place, you said you wanted a red door,” Harry elaborates, feeling a bit sheepish and stupid at his own tendency to get hung up on semantics. “Like, I mean, your car gave it away too, but I saw the door first.”

“Oh,” Louis says quietly, pursing his lips, and then he sets his tea on the coffee table and leans forward to wrap his arms around Harry’s shoulders in a vice-like grip. At first Harry freezes, but relaxes into it almost immediately, turning into a less awkward position and slowly snaking his arms around Louis’ waist. He tucks his face into Louis’ neck and breathes him in, and he smells like warmth and clean laundry with just the vaguest hint of cologne. Harry isn’t sure how long they sit wrapped around each other for, but it’s too soon when Louis pulls away and sits back, still close enough that Harry can see the freckles and thin lines on his face.

“I’m still working on the ballroom, though,” Louis tells him quietly, quirking a small grin that mirrors Harry’s.

“So, um. I guess I should ask...am I stepping on anyone’s toes right now? Like, are you seeing anyone?” Harry wonders if he should have asked before now, and the answer is probably, absolutely he should have, because if Louis gives him the wrong answer he might just break. He already told himself not to get his hopes up, but the thing is, they were already up long before he ever thought to tamper them down.

Thankfully, Louis shakes his head, telling him that his boyfriend from six months ago - Matt or Mike or something - cheated on him in September, and moved out shortly after. It sparks something angry in Harry for a moment, because how could anyone throw someone like him away like that, especially when having to let him go against his will was the worst thing that ever happened to Harry. Louis shrugs it off, though, and makes a vague comment about how he wasn’t sure it would last much longer anyway, that he wasn’t sure he even liked him all that much.

“Was just lonely, I guess,” he mentions, and there’s an implication somewhere in there that Harry thinks he’s supposed to pick up on. He takes it as his cue to clear his throat and start the conversation he came here to have, searching for the right words to say.

“I’m still in love with you, Louis,” he confesses, unable to hold his gaze. “I still am, and I never stopped.”

Louis’ hands fidget in his lap, playing with a string on his jumper. It’s silent for maybe a second, but it still lasts way too long, and Harry needs to hear it back before his insides collapse.

“I thought maybe you hated me,” Louis says instead. Harry wants to deny it immediately, but he can tell Louis has more to say, so he waits. “When you stopped speaking to me. I mean, my first immediate thought was that you hated me right then, but then I convinced myself that you had hated me the whole time, for breaking up with you, and that I was pushing the friendship on you - "

Harry’s patient, but that’s when it runs its course, and he has to interject. “Louis, I never hated you. I’m sorry, but you have to know that. I hated - I hated how I felt, and I hated myself a little for somehow chasing you away, but I didn’t hate you. Never, not for a second.”

“I get that now,” Louis says sincerely. “I just thought you should know, like, that’s why I didn’t fight harder to keep speaking to you after you stopped. I gave up on us, and I’m a fucking coward for that, and then I gave up on our friendship, too, but you have to know I didn’t stop regretting it for one second after I let you go. Gemma called me after, gave me a bloody earful, but by then it had already been weeks, and I thought it was too late. Then months passed, and I’d already convinced myself that you’d never take me back, and then Matt - he’d been asking me on dates for weeks, you know, but I always said no - he asked me and I finally agreed. And he was nothing like you at all, and I thought that’s what I needed - but I was wrong, over and over again I was wrong, and when you called me that first night last month I thought I was fuckin’ dreaming. And you seemed to think it was some sort of inconvenience, and maybe it should have been, but all I could think about was proving to you I still cared. And that’s the thing, like - it’s so selfish, but I always want to be the first person you call if you’re in trouble, if you need something. I’m serious, you probably could have called me five years from now from fucking - Barbados, or whatever, and I’d book the next bloody flight to come get you whatever you need. I never cared about anyone the way I care about you, Harry, and I just - I fucking love you so much. I can’t justify leaving you, because every reason I had sounds so goddamn stupid now, but please don’t ever think it was because I didn’t love you.”

Harry nods, soaking it all in. It’s a lot, finding out exactly where he was right and where he was so, so wrong. His hands shake in his lap, and one of Louis’ comes up to cover them, warm palm draping over his knuckles and squeezing gently.

“I wanna be with you, Lou,” Harry blurts, easy as anything. “You were it for me. You still are. And I - what we had, I want it back.”

“I want it too, I do, I guess I’m just - like, what if it isn’t the same?” Louis asks, glancing up at him through his lashes, and there’s so much genuine concern in his eyes that Harry huffs out a wet laugh.

“It doesn’t have to be the same, does it? Just has to be you and me.” He brings one of Louis’ hands up to his lips, lets them graze over his knuckles cautiously, so happy and hopeful he’s practically delirious with it.

“I wanna try,” Louis finally decides, after a long pause.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, and then, “I do, too. I want that so much.”

They agree to go out the next week, to talk about the ins and outs of it over dinner. The genuine feeling of relief is almost overwhelming, and it doesn’t just go away, either, washing over Harry in bits and pieces until he feels like he might jump out of his skin any minute.

The kiss they share on the way out happens by accident. Harry’s one foot out the door when Louis says, “hey,” and tugs him back in for a hug, and when Harry moves to pull away, his face is just _there._ It’s short and fleeting but it’s sweet, and even though it’s just a dry brush of lips, it’s enough to have Harry lightly touching his mouth for the rest of the night.

In the morning Louis asks him if he slept well, and Harry tells him he did, and for the first time in a year, he means it.

*

They don’t jump straight into things. Harry is ready to pick up right where they left off, including the living-together bit, but Louis seems to want to try just dating first, a clean start, and Harry is okay with that. It’s easy to fall back into Louis, though, and spontaneous dinner dates on weekdays never felt so natural. Gemma squeals when he tells her, and then tells him to apologise to Louis on her behalf for the nasty things she said to him, but also that if he breaks Harry’s heart again she can do a whole lot worse.

Holding Louis’ hand again feels like flying, and kissing him is even better, but there’s one line Harry’s not sure if he can overstep. For the first week or two, sex is the last thing on his mind, but to be blunt, he’s still only twenty-three and Louis’ still the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen and there’s still only so much snogging-in-the-car-with-the-heat-on-and-the-windows-fogged-up he can do before it starts to get...well, hard as in difficult, but hard as in _hard,_ too.

He’s honestly got to give Louis more credit, though, because he was always just as up for it as Harry was, before, and the night before his birthday is the night he finally invites Harry to stay.

They’d gone out to dinner, a proper wine-and-dine, and now they’re in Harry’s car outside Louis’ house, the engine still on as they exchange soft kisses over the console. One of Louis’ knuckles has been not-so-subtly creeping up Harry’s thigh for the past five minutes, until he finally pulls back and says, rushed, “do you wanna come in?”

“Really?” Harry asks a little incredulously, smirk slowly spreading across his face, but there’s an actual confirmation somewhere in there. He kisses the corner of Louis’ mouth once, twice, three times before Louis rolls his eyes and finally nods, reaching across Harry and shutting the engine off for him.

“Yes, really, twat. Come on.”

Harry follows him up to the door, biting his lip raw as Louis unlocks the door and gets them inside. Thirty seconds ago he was confident, but he doesn’t really remember feeling this nervous since the first time, and that was only because he’d spilled his drink all down Louis’ front ten minutes prior and was almost certain he never wanted to see him again despite being shirtless and sitting on his bed. They leave their coats and shoes in the closet by the door, and then Louis leads him inside through the foyer, down the corridor and into the bedroom that Harry has only actually seen in passing so far. Louis flicks a switch somewhere and suddenly they’re bathed in soft lamplight, illuminating the football posters and the pride flag on the wall and the unmade navy duvet on the bed in the corner.

“Sorry, I should’ve tidied a bit,” Louis mutters, bashful, turning to pick up a shirt that’s found its way to the floor, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“Louis,” he tries, but Louis has busied himself shoving things into corners, so Harry steps further into the room and wraps large palms around soft hips, pressing gently into the flesh there until Louis spins around to face him. It has the side effect of sending Louis stumbling into his chest a bit, hands coming up to Harry’s chest to steady himself.

“Hey,” Harry whispers.

“Hi,” Louis whispers back, and he’s flushing, bless him, so close and _there_ that Harry almost forgets how fast his heart is beating underneath his palms.

“You don’t have to do that. I know you’re messy, remember?”

“Shut up,” Louis murmurs, but relaxes into him, letting Harry push his hair back from his face and nosing into it when Harry brushes closer, closing the small space between their mouths and catching Louis’ bottom lip in a soft kiss. Louis sighs into it, taught shoulders going lax as he moves his mouth gently against Harry’s. There’s a certain tenderness to it that Harry wishes he could keep in his pocket forever, a comfort in the way Louis opens his mouth for him and lets Harry take the lead, one of the only times he ever does. Harry’s still nervous, keeping his touches careful and tame, and the kiss must last for entire minutes before he finds the courage to take the next step. He walks Louis towards where he knows the bed is, guiding him with his hands on the curve of his waist, and like, he _knows_ his body has thousands of nerve endings, but he’s certain he’s never felt every single one of them until now.

Louis’ knees hit the side of the bed, but instead of laying him onto it, Harry flops down onto his back and pulls Louis on top of him, enjoying the weight of Louis’ palms pressing into his shoulders. Louis doesn’t even question his motive, just leans down and presses their mouths back together, nothing but the sounds of rustling sheets and hot breath filling the room as it gets heavier, more desperate. It’s only when Louis pushes his hips down, ever so minutely, that Harry knows what he’s asking for, and he slides his hands further down to get two palm-fulls of his arse, squeezing. Louis shudders and gets a grip on Harry’s jaw, using his artificial height to his advantage.

For a while they go like that, just snogging heavily while lying sideways on Louis’ bed and getting more and more handsy as they go. It’s only once Louis has got them both stripped out of their shirts, and making steady work of undoing Harry’s belt buckle while Harry cranes his neck to suck a mark into his collarbone, that Louis asks Harry to fuck him. Harry can’t do anything except nod breathlessly, tracing a tattoo on Louis’ bicep that he hasn’t seen before, and letting Louis palm him through his boxers for a minute before he ducks away to produce lube from somewhere underneath his mattress.

“How long’s it been?” Harry finds himself asking once he’s got Louis on his back, one hand opening him up slowly while the fingertips of his other dig into the meat of Louis’ bare thigh where he’s pushing it down against the mattress. It’s a stupid question in the sense that no answer will satisfy him, but he just wants to know, and Louis still humours him, mouth quirking up as he asks, “Since you or since anyone?”

“Since anyone, obviously.”

“Obviously?” Louis raises a brow, but it’s only for a split second because Harry must twist his hand just right, causing Louis’ unimpressed expression to melt into bliss.

Harry leans in close, lips grazing Louis’ jaw when he bends to put his mouth to his ear, wrist moving with intent as he murmurs, “as if I haven’t been counting down the fucking days until I got to touch you again.”

It’s true; he can remember exactly the last time they fucked before this, a rainy Sunday in mid-October of last year, just weeks before Harry’s life turned upside down. It doesn’t matter now. Nothing really does except for the way Louis keens and tugs at the fine hairs at the back of Harry’s neck.

“Couple months, I don’t know,” he finally answers, gritting it through his teeth. “Probably wasn’t very good. I gave up trying to find someone who - ”

Louis cuts himself off, but Harry nips at his ear and insists he continue. He’s always been territorial, so what. “Say it,” he mutters when Louis stays silent, and he’s not sure if it’s the verbal demand or the way he drives his fingers in deeper that has Louis gasping his response.

“Someone who - Jesus, someone who does it as good as you.”

It’s all Harry needs to pull his fingers out and wipe them carelessly on the sheets, blindly fumbling for the lube he’d tossed aside as he presses their mouths together in a wet kiss.

He buries his face in Louis’ neck when he finally starts to push inside, keeping it there and caressing his soft hips as he gives a few experimental grinds. As much as he wants to fuck him up, make up for all the time they’ve lost, he can’t bring himself to pull their bodies apart. The pace he’s determined to keep is so slow it’s maddening, but it’s worth it for the way their bodies click together, skin on skin, worth it for the way he feels close to him like he’s never felt with anyone else. And Louis likes it hard, usually, at least harder than this, and if it were any other time he might smack Harry round the head and ask when exactly he plans on fucking him, but for once he’s got nothing to say. He keeps Harry where he is, in fact, one hand anchored in his hair and the other keeping a biting grip on his hip, surely leaving fingernail marks on the fleshy curve of his arse.

Harry makes him come like that, aimlessly mouthing at the skin behind his ear as Louis whimpers into his hair and slicks up the both of their stomachs. It’s not long before Harry’s following suit, mouth caught open on a moan as he rides it out with short, jerky rolls of his hips.

He stays on top of Louis as long as Louis lets him, which doesn't turn out to be long. Maybe two minutes after they've both caught their breath, Louis rolls him off with force, clearly biting back a laugh when Harry whines in protest. They come to a compromise, Harry settling for hooking his chin on Louis’ shoulder, graciously cleaning Louis up with the tissue he hands him before draping an arm and a leg over his sweaty body.

He drops a short kiss to Louis’ shoulder, eyes already heavy, and mutters, “Happy birthday, baby.”

He catches Louis’ tight-lipped smile with slitted eyes, blinking slowly as Louis reaches to pull the string of the lamp.

“Not my birthday yet,” he whispers into Harry’s hair.

“Mm. Feels like mine,” he says airily.

Louis wriggles one hand underneath Harry’s body so he can curl it around his shoulder, giggling, “Go to sleep, you bloody sap”, but if he thinks Harry doesn’t catch the feather-light kiss Louis presses to the crown of his head just before he drifts off, he’s sorely mistaken.

 

Waking up next to Louis on his birthday goes like this: rich sunlight filtering in through the blinds, tinted grey from the winter sky, Louis next to Harry snoring softly though he’ll deny it to his dying day, but most importantly, Louis next to Harry in general, warm skin against skin and the smell of sleep clouding all of his senses. Maybe serenity is too strong of a word, but it’s a certain peace that Harry feels deep in his bones as he blinks awake against the bright light in the room with a familiar warm body curled up against his side. _Good morning, I love you,_ Harry thinks to himself, and then later when Louis stirs awake, he says it out loud, earning himself a flick to the nose and a fond smile that Louis tries and fails to hide.

He drags Louis into the shower with him and that’s where he gives him his present, drawing sweet moans from him as he sucks him off under the hot spray. After they towel off, they pad into the kitchen and make banana pancakes in nothing but their pants, engaging in one too many flour fights to really be acceptable for two men in their twenties.

“Hey,” Louis says later when they’re on the sofa, bellies full and hearts warm, Harry falling in and out of a doze with his head in Louis’ lap as he listens to Louis speak to his mum on the phone. At first Harry doesn’t think he’s talking to him, but when he glances up he sees Louis’ hung up the call.

“Mm?” Harry acknowledges, sleepily registering the way Louis’ fingers drag gently through his hair.

“How’d you like to be my boyfriend again?” Louis asks, and Harry beams his answer, doesn’t even have to say it out loud. He’s been running for a year and now he feels like he’s finally caught his breath.

December is ending a whole lot better than it began.

_fin._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> is it really a getting back together fic if it doesn't get unnecessarily sappy at the end? lmao
> 
> as always, kudos/comments are greatly appreciated, and here is the [fic post](http://crossnecklace.tumblr.com/post/164529681171/give-me-things-to-stay-awake-by-embodied-pairing) if u liked it enough to give me a reblog. 
> 
> [tumblr](http://southerngothicau.tumblr.com/)/[twitter](https://twitter.com/nosebleedharry)


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